


Sunshine

by NorthernSparrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bedsharing, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Dean is really straight, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, No Smut, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Profound Bond, Sleepy Cuddles, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14562546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernSparrow/pseuds/NorthernSparrow
Summary: One-shot with a single conversation between Dean and Castiel, set in a late-S13-ish world. Gabriel, Cas, Sam & Dean are all living in the bunker together, Gabe's been cracking certain jokes, Sam's found a certain book, Cas is injured and isn’t healing... and it's all making Dean wonder if his angel friend might have some sort of a "bond" with... somebody? Whatever that means.Maybe it's time for a talk.(This fic is platonic Destiel, in this case meaning: no smut, Dean's truly straight, and whatever Cas’s "bond" is, it's not sexual. But it's deep, and it matters.)





	Sunshine

_JIB week is looming and I'm in Italy again. Been working hard on science papers for the past six months & have had some Hawaii & sea turtle fieldwork, but at last I've got a little vacation, and a little time again for fic writing. This one's just a quick platonic-Destiel oneshot that came to mind recently. Just a single conversation, really. Hope you enjoy - I've always had a soft spot for the deep-but-platonic conception of the Dean/Cas friendship._

_PS, please forgive any formatting glitches - I'm having a little trouble uploading this from some new devices while traveling._

 

* * *

 

Last bedroom on the left. The very end of the bunker hallway.

Dean paused outside the bedroom door. It occurred to him, not for the first time, to wonder why Cas had chosen this room; why he'd settled on a room that was so far away. It was just about as far from Dean's room as it was possible to get.

Dean raised his hand to knock, and paused a moment. He took a breath and closed his eyes, hand still in the air.

_Am I ready? Am I sure about this?_

He'd already thought it all through, out there in the library when he'd read through that chapter in the big black book. That weird black book that Sam had found somehow this morning... well, that Gabriel had pointed Sam to, really. Gabriel had then flitted away somewhere without any further explanation, and Sam had been hunkered down in the library ever since, for nearly the whole day. He'd emerged at dinnertime only to tell Dean, "Go to the library and read the book on the table. It's open to the right page. Just read that chapter. I'm going out for a while."

So Dean had read the chapter, about an hour ago now. Then he'd sat there for the rest of the hour, pretty much just staring into space.

He'd thought it all through.

But was he sure? Was he sure right down to his bones?

 _Yeah, I'm sure_ , Dean thought, and he knocked.

"Hey, dude, you in there?" Dean called softly. "Cas?"

There was no answer. Dean gave another soft knock. "Cas, you awake?"

"Yes," came a low voice.

"Mind if I come in?"

Another pause. Dean waited, a little impatiently.

At last there came the soft rustling sound of blankets and sheets being pushed aside, a creak of bedsprings, and then the nearly inaudible padding of bare feet on the tile floor. A few moments later the door swung slowly open. There was Castiel, giving Dean a slightly puzzled, but welcoming, look. He was clad only in a pair of pajama bottoms — well, pajama bottoms and also a broad band of white bandages taped around his ribs. The bandages had been there for a week now, and as usual he had one hand held protectively to his side. He'd been stabbed last week (or "slightly grazed" as he invariably described it), on a recent hunt. A vampire had somehow ended up with an angel-blade. These days it seemed like every other vamp, werewolf and shifter in North America had somehow found itself an angel-blade. Presumably related to the thousands of angels who seemed to have died off in the last few years.

Cas had taken out the vamp in the end, turning the blade on its bearer during a hard-fought wrestling match, while Dean and Sam had scrambled to deal with a couple other vamps. Dean and Sam were pretty much good as new now, but Cas's wound still hadn't healed. Today, it looked like it was still hurting him; he was standing a little hunched over, his face tight with pain.

Which was to say, he looked about like normal.

"Come in, come in," Cas said, making -- or attempting to make -- a broad, welcoming gesture toward the rest of his bedroom. He flinched as soon as he'd started the move, and tucked his hand back to his side again, hunching over even more.

"Dude, get back to the damn bed," Dean said, a little alarmed. He watched as Cas hobbled back to his bed and sat down gingerly. It looked like he wasn't even able to take a normal breath.

"Have you healed at _all_?" Dean couldn't help asking. "It's been, like, a week. Eight days at least. Right?"

"Ten," corrected Cas. "It's a little better." He was now trying to tilt himself back down onto the mattress. Partway through this maneuver he froze, a pained grimace passing over his face. "Maybe it's not a little better," muttered Cas, as Dean hastily grabbed a spare pillow and stuffed it behind Cas's back. Cas curled up against the pillow with a small gasp of relief, sitting up against the headboard of the bed and tucking his knees nearly up to his chest. He took a few cautious breaths, relaxed minutely, pulled the blanket up over his knees, and finally he looked up at Dean.

"What can I do for you?" asked Castiel. As if nothing at all were wrong.

Dean frowned down at him. "Seems to be taking you a while to heal up," he commented.

Cas shrugged one shoulder (this seemed to be as much as he could move without causing more pain). "It's only been ten days," he said. "This is about normal. For an angel-blade wound, I mean. You must remember, it always takes me a while to heal from these sorts of wounds."

"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that," said Dean. He turned to swing the door of Cas's room closed — why, he wasn't sure; Gabriel and Sam weren't around anyway. But, compelled by some need for privacy, he closed Cas's door nonetheless, and turned back to the bed to find that a distinct air of apprehension had come over Cas's face.

Cas said evenly, "I was just slightly grazed by the blade, at that hunt last week. I'm not in any danger. But, you may remember, I've had these sorts of... minor grazes before, and they can take a while to heal."

"Yeah, but, that's just it," said Dean. _Here we go,_ he thought... but it turned out it was harder than he'd expected to start in on the stuff that had been in that book. Stuff that definitely needed discussing, Dean knew. But it was suddenly a little difficult to even look at Cas.

Dean sat slowly down on the edge of Cas's bed, but then found himself looking at the floor, biting his lip. Setting both hands on his knees, he paused a long moment, a little unsure how to start.

Finally Dean said just, "Gabriel says it shouldn't be taking so long."

"Gabriel is an archangel," said Cas. "And at nearly full power. I'm just a seraph, and only at partial power. My wings were permanently damaged when Metatron threw me out of Heaven, you know that, and that makes it harder to—"

"Gabe said you're a bonded angel," interrupted Dean, and Castiel fell silent.

There was a long pause. 

"So this morning," Dean said, with a quick glance over at Cas (who seemed to have actually gone somewhat pale), "Gabe cracked some joke to Sam about how you're the slowest-healing bonded angel he's ever seen. Some weird joke about the worst bond in the world, the slowest or most clueless or something. He seemed to think it was totally hilarious, but Sam and me didn't have a clue what he meant." Dean managed another glance over at Cas, only to find that Cas wasn't looking at him at all anymore. Castiel was sitting very still, still sitting half-propped up by the pillow, but his gaze was now fixed on a little fold of bedcover that seemed to be tightly knotted up in his hands.

Under Dean's scrutiny, he seemed to force one hand to relax, then the other. He patted the bedcover smooth over his knees, and drew in a slow breath of air.

"I can't think what he meant," said Cas, a little stiffly. "Surely you know Gabriel has an odd sense of humor. I assure you I'm quite fine. I just need a little more time. A few weeks, maybe."

"Yeah," said Dean, still watching him. "A few weeks. Sure would be nice, though, if you could heal from these things faster, wouldn't it?"

Cas hesitated for a long moment. "I'm not at full power," he said at last, rather quietly.

 _I'm gonna have to drag this out of him_ , Dean realized. Oddly, the thought was almost relaxing. Arguing with Cas, trying to force him to talk about something he didn't want to talk about, locking horns over Castiel's mulish reluctance to open up — it was never easy, but at least it was familiar territory.

"Thing is," Dean said, shifting around a little on the bed to face him more directly, "Sam got curious and went rummaging around in the library and found this book. Big black book on angels. He swears it wasn't there before... we're both kinda wondering if Gabe planted it there, or something. Gabe had kinda hinted he should go look in the library. Anyway...." Dean paused, for Cas was looking distinctly uncomfortable again. His gaze was fixed on his knees, which had drawn up even farther toward his chest; his jaw had tightened, and his hands were once again knotting up on the bedcovers. Dean watched Cas's knuckles tense up, and found himself thinking, almost with some amusement, _This is gonna be interesting._

Dean made himself go on: "So, there's a ton of interesting info in that book — "

"Have you read it?" said Cas, in a surprisingly calm voice, though he seemed to be speaking only to his knees.

"Parts," said Dean. "There's this chapter that has this part about, um... bonds. Like... apparently... angels can... bond? With... somebody else?"

At this point it suddenly wasn't so amusing anymore.

Rather, it was rapidly becoming clear that this was the awkward part. The intensely awkward part, and Dean found he was starting to stumble over his words. "With, like, a, uh... a, um... a friend? Or a, uh..." Dean had to spit the next phrase out rapidly: "A partner or a companion, like for, um, molt or something?"

Cas's head had started to droop a little.

"It happens to some angels," said Cas at last, and now he was speaking so softly that his voice was barely audible. "Not all."

He paused for a long moment. Dean waited.

"It's rare now," Cas ventured at last. "There are so few angels left...."

"The book says it's, um, like a life-long thing," said Dean. "That once an angel... bonds... he's... um... bonded for life? Like, um, Gabe was cracking some joke about that it's like... albatrosses?" He forced a chuckle, hoping to break the tension that seemed to have suddenly frozen all the air in the room. "You know, because, albatrosses, um... mate for life. Heh...." Dean heard his own voice weakening, and soon he'd trailed off into silence.

Cas didn't smile.

 _Albatrosses, not funny, check_ , thought Dean, now in something of a panic. _Got it. No albatross jokes._

"Yes, it appears so," said Cas evenly, gaze still directed at his knees. "Such bonds, once formed, do not break. And it seems they don't even weaken. Even if... well, even if it would be better if they did."

"Huh. That's, uh, that's interesting...." Dean said, mentally scrambling now for some way to loosen things up, some way to put Cas even slightly at ease. Dean forced a shrug, like this was all a totally casual topic of conversation, and said, "You know, I think everybody's had that kind of thing happen. Sooner or later it happens to the best of us, heh, right? But, over time, it kinda... it fades eventually, doesn't it? With time, it sorta eases up—"

"No," Cas said. His head was still down, and his voice was quiet, but he spoke steadily. "It doesn't fade with time."

"Well, not at first, but, I mean, I bet with _enough_ time— "

Cas broke in, "It's not like what happens to humans." A slightly annoyed tone had crept into his voice.

"But—"

"We're _not human_ ," Cas interrupted, a definite bite in his voice now, and when he looked up at Dean, he had an actual scowl on his face. He said, "You forget that sometimes. We angels, we're not human. _I’m_  not human, Dean—"And the scowl was gone, just as fast as it had come; the sharp tone was gone from his voice as well, and Castiel's head soon drooped down again.

He suddenly looked about as tired as Dean had ever seen him.

A heavy silence fell. Dean watched him quietly. Cas didn't speak; he stared at his knees, and after a few long moments he leaned his head slowly back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"How long?" asked Dean at last.

Cas gave a quiet sigh. His eyes remained closed.

"A while," Cas said.

"Gabriel seems to think it's hilarious I didn't know," said Dean.

"Gabriel has an odd sense of humor," Cas said drily, at last opening his eyes. "As we already know. Look, we don't need to discuss this." He flicked a very guarded glance at Dean. "It's fine. Actually I'd really rather not—"

"If I hadn't wanted to talk to you about it, I wouldn’t have come in here," Dean pointed out. "Look, dude, you're hurt and you're not healing. The book says bonded angels should heal faster. That they have more power. That they, um, molt better, that they soak up more, um, ether or something, more power? And they should be able to heal up pretty quick—"

"Not always," broke in Cas. "Obviously."

"Well, why not? I mean... is there something I can do?" Cas raised an eyebrow, and, too late, Dean realized how that might sound, and he hastened to add, "Look, I mean, thing is, I do have some... ah... constraints. Limits, I guess. There's some things that... that I can't... " He groped for the right words, and only managed to stammer, his cheeks starting to heat, "See, the thing is, I'm, um, I'm, I'm not, I'm not... see, I know it's just your vessel, not _you_ , not really... so actually," (here he felt himself veer into a completely unplanned tangent, a move born out of sheer desperation) "—I was wondering, have you ever had female vessels? Oh, wait, there was Claire, wasn't there, ha, I forgot about that! Boy, that was a while ago. I mean, besides Claire." (How the hell had Claire gotten dragged into this? _Definitely_ not good to start dragging underage-vessels into the picture.) "Forget Claire. I meant, adult female vessels?" (Cas still had an eyebrow raised; he was watching Dean now with something like fascination, as if his own discomfort had been eased simply by the sight of Dean floundering so badly.) "But, see, what I meant is—" Dean stammered. How the hell was this so impossible to say? "The thing is, I'm not— I'm just not— I mean, not that there's anything _wrong_ with it, absolutely not, not in the _least_ , but, I’m just not ... um...."

"You're not homosexual," supplied Cas at last, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face now. "I know that. It's obvious."

"Yeah," said Dean, whose face now felt nearly on fire; he knew he must be blushing. Blushing red-hot, probably. "Sorry, I guess I'm kinda hard-wired that way. I can't... I mean I can't help it. It's just the way I am. And I know maybe that doesn't even seem relevant exactly because you're not even... well, I guess you're not even... male? Exactly? I guess? Not really? Dammit, Cas, help me out here.”

"I'm not _human_ ," Cas corrected, and he tipped his head back against the wall, again with a faint sigh. "Dean, it's not what you're thinking, it's really not. Remember what I just said? _We're not human_. Angels are _not human._ The bonding that can happen... it's not analogous to what you're thinking. There's nothing really analogous for humans. It's not like that at all."

"Well, what is it like then?" Dean said helplessly. Cas looked at him, and Dean said, "I mean, forgive me if I'm not getting this, but, remember, _you never told me anything about it_." Dean was unable to keep a slightly hurt tone out of his voice as he added, "You never told me a damn thing, actually. I had to find out about this from _Gabriel_? Seriously?"

That seemed to hit home; a slightly abashed look crossed Cas's face. "Sorry," he said at last. "Maybe I should have said something. But, you've got to understand, I never wanted to burden you. It seemed... well, it seemed best if I just never mentioned anything. I didn't want to scare you—"

" _Scare_ me?" Dean repeated, a little astonished.

"Yes, I didn't want to make you, well... nervous, I guess? Didn't want to cause you to feel you had to... withdraw, or, feel uncomfortable, I suppose?" ( _He didn't want me to feel uncomfortable_ , thought Dean numbly.) "I didn't want to be a burden—"

"Cas, I had to burn your body," Dean said.

Cas blinked and fell silent in mid-sentence, mouth actually half-open, clearly startled. Dean was somewhat startled himself; he hadn't planned this part. "I had to _burn your body_ ," Dean repeated. "I _saw_ you get killed, remember? Sam had to go run after Jack and I had to, like..." _I had to fall to my knees and stare at your body for a while because I could not fucking take it in._ "... I had to... carry you inside the house. I put you on this table... I was kinda waiting to see if you were gonna... wake up, you know? Thought you might wake up. But, um... we... um... we waited a while... I even prayed a bit..." _Punched my knuckles bloody on a splintered outhouse door. "_ But... you didn't... You didn't wake up. Sam went off after Jack and I had to...." Dean's throat seemed to be closing up at the memory, till he was almost unable to breathe. He had to turn away from Cas, and stare down at his own clenched hands, and pause, and swallow, and take a slow breath.

Finally he risked a glance back at Cas to find him watching Dean intently, forehead furrowed, eyes wide and dark.

Dean ran one hand through his own hair. "I had to wrap you in a sheet," he said. "Tie it around you. Tore up some curtains, used them to tie it around your feet, around your waist, around your shoulders. Whole nine yards, the whole deal. Found some dead trees to cut the wood for the fire. Takes hours, you know that? Took all damn day. Cut all the wood, stack it up, carry you out, put you up there.... douse it— you — with — with lighter fluid—" And there Dean had to stop again for a long moment, his throat aching.

Cas still hadn't spoken.

Dean laced his hands in his lap, staring at the floor. "Usual deal," he made himself go on. "I mean, we've done it before. Did it for Dad, y'know. Did it for Bobby. For Charlie... For you. We always have the axe, you know, in the car, and we always have the lighter fluid, so, we did all that, and lit it up, and stood there and watched, we always watch to be sure, watch to be sure it's all burned to ash. Jesus, the frickin' _smell_...."

Dean had to put one hand over his mouth then, and choke down a taste of bile. Just from the memory.

After a long moment of breathing very carefully, he was able to turn back to Cas, who was still staring at Dean in absolute silence.

Dean swallowed and said, "And we went on. Sam and me. But... shit, man, it was like the spirit just got punched right out of us. Bad enough to lose Mom. But you? Cas... you know, over the years... well, I've got Sam, and I've got you. That's been kinda _it_ , for me, you know? So it was...." Dean paused. It was really impossible to describe this, wasn't it? Cas was never going to get it. "Well, it was not good," Dean summarized, a little lamely. "For months I had dreams," he added. "Nightmares, I guess. Right up to the day you came back, I was having those dreams. I'd close my eyes and I'd just... see you die. See you get stabbed, see your body burn. Over and over."

A long silence fell.

At last Cas spoke. "The last thing I saw was you staring at me," he said, sounding almost thoughtful. Dean looked over at him, and Cas regarded him in silence for several long seconds. Finally he said, "And the last thought I had... honestly, I just wanted to apologize. For being so careless. I should have known he'd come at me from behind like that. It was a sloppy mistake; amateurish. I wanted to apologize for letting you down. For leaving you. Because, the look on your face...."

They were both silent for another long moment.

Cas looked down at his hands. He spread the fingers of one hand, then the other, and turned both his hands over a few times, palm down, then palm up. He said finally, "I didn't actually know you'd burned my vessel. I realize now I never asked. I thought... I assumed, rather, that I was resurrected into that body. Then this one is... what, a copy?"

"Nice new meat suit," said Dean, forcing a wan smile. "If it's a copy, it's damn good."

"More than a copy," said Cas, still looking at his hands. "There's scars I still have. There's certain feathers that were damaged in certain ways... the way the feather-vanes were torn, the way the shafts were broken... it's all precisely the same." A contemplative expression had come onto his face. "I wonder if he reassembled the original atoms? Jack or that entity, I’m not even sure who.... Or is it a copy that was somehow summoned from my own memory? Or maybe he, or they, performed a temporal adjustment, recalled the same vessel from an earlier point in time—"

"Point is," said Dean, "I do not want to lose you again, okay?"

Castiel looked up at Dean, and their eyes met.

Dean said, "So if I can do something to help you heal up, _you gotta tell me_. Never mind if you think it's gonna freak me out. I'm the one who gets to decide that, not you. Never mind if you think you've just got a minor injury. Never mind if you think you just got 'slightly grazed' or whatever stupid phrase you come up with to describe a near-lethal stabbing — and don't you dare pretend this injury last week was anything less than that, 'cause _I know better_ , dude, and so does Sam, by the way." (Cas didn't argue; he just gave a quiet nod.) "And if I can help, you gotta tell me _specifically_ what I can do that will help you. I won't pretend I understand this... bond thing, okay? I don't, obviously. And that would be because _you haven't told me a damn thing about it_ , if I can just point that out again, and that's on _you_ , man. You should've told me, and you never did. And, I mean, like I said, maybe I do have some limits... some stuff I can't do, and apparently you know that already, but just the same you gotta _talk to me_ —"

"I just told you it's not even like that," said Cas quietly.

Dean paused. "Well, what is it like, then?"

Cas finally looked at him straight on. "I think sometimes that you — I mean, you humans, in the broad sense — you may have trouble conceptualizing a close bond that doesn't have an inherently sexual component. Maybe it's more like...." Now it was Cas's turn to grope for words, as he gestured vaguely in the air with both hands. "Maybe it's more like what you have with Sam. But even that's not quite the same, I think; Sam's proximity doesn't affect you." ( _Proximity?_ thought Dean. It seemed a clue.) "It's more like..." Cas paused, gazing across the room, his eyes unfocusing a little, as if he were trying to envision just the right metaphor.

At last he said, "Imagine if you were very cold. In the snow, in a cold wind, in the dark. Walking for a long time. Say, walking on a winter night. So cold that you're getting worried you might not last the night. The cold feels like it's leaching all the life right out of you. But then, at last the sun rises. Right ahead of you, there's the sun, coming up over the horizon and warming up the whole world. And the night is banished, just like that. And you stand there in the sunshine and just... well, you _bask,_ right?"

Dean nodded, mutely, as Cas went on, "You'd spread your arms — like wings, see — and you'd just let the sunshine warm you, right down to your bones. Imagine how that warmth would feel. Right down to your marrow. And all the cold simply falls away. No more shivering." He was quiet a moment, and the look on his face was almost painful to see: a hunger, but a sad wistfulness too. As if the sensation he were describing could never come to pass.

Cas added, almost in a whisper, "At last you could stop moving... at last you could rest."

Dean could only look at him.

"Based on my experience with cold and warmth," Cas said, his eyes refocusing as he came out of his reverie, "which is admittedly limited, I think that may be a fairly good analogy." He glanced at Dean, looking almost pleased with himself about the quality of his metaphor. "There's nothing sexual about sunshine, right? Yet it feels good just the same, doesn't it? It... it eases you, it relaxes you." He added, after a moment's thought, "There's also the element of feeling safe. The wolves won't approach any more; the night-time predators stay away. It's finally safe to rest."

"Like knowing someone's got your back," said Dean softly.

Cas gave a short nod. "An element of that, yes."

_Imagine if you were very cold. In the snow, in a cold wind, in the dark._

"Okay," said Dean. "So what do I gotta do? How do I make this sunshine thing happen?"

The wary look was immediately back in Cas's eyes.

"Oh, _come on_ ," Dean said. "We got so far. You can't stop on me _now_ , Cas, seriously?"

Cas grimaced. "You're not gonna like it," he said, with clear reluctance.

" _Cas,"_ Dean said, glaring at him. "Do I have to say it again? I _had to burn your body—_ "

"All right, all _right_ ," said Cas, rather aggrieved, as if that were an entirely unfair card to play. His mouth twisted a little as he finally confessed, "It has to do with, ah... physical contact."

"What happened to, oh Dean it's _totally_ not physical?" said Dean.

"It's not _sexual_ ," objected Castiel. "I didn't say it wasn't _physical_. It's not _sexual_ —"

"Okay, so, physical but not sexual," said Dean. "We're finally getting somewhere. So what is it exactly?"

Cas hesitated.

"Do I have to ask all yes-or-no questions?" said Dean. "Or, wait, how about if we play Twenty Questions. Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"Dean—" said Cas, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, knowing you it'd take about five hundred questions," said Dean. "Okay, charades then, how about charades? You could act it out. How many syllables?"

"Would you just—"

"So, to communicate the number of syllables, you make this gesture on your arm," supplied Dean helpfully, putting two fingers on his arm. "See, that would mean two syllables. And then you'd act it out—"

"I am not going to _act it out—"_ Cas objected.

"Well, if you can't say it and you can't act it out, you could break it into syllables, or you can do 'sounds-like". Like, say it's about, I don't know, cutting my hair or something, well, 'hair' sounds like 'bear' so you give the sounds-like sign and then you could pretend to be a bear and then I'd start guessing things that rhyme with bear—"

"I'd need my wings on you," blurted out Cas.

Dean blinked.

And Castiel blushed. It would have been funny, if he hadn't looked so rattled.

"Not directly, actually," said Cas rapidly, "Because, I can't even bring my wings over, you understand. I mean, I can't even manifest them; I can't bring them over to the material plane, not any more. The feathers are far too damaged. And they've never healed; they won't heal. But even so, if I could just... get them close to you, in the etheric plane, I mean, the plane where they are, right next to this plane." He added, sounding rather desperate, "Dean, I _never_ wanted to pressureyou, in any way, at all, I swear —"

"So, 'wings' is only one syllable," said Dean mildly. "One finger on the arm, see?" (He demonstrated.) "One finger on the arm and then you could've acted it out. Or, you know, you also could've just SAID that. In, like, words. _At any time in the entire last several years_ , you could've just TOLD me. Five years or eight or whatever it's been."

"Ten," said Cas, with a grimace. "It's only about bringing the tertial-feathers nearer to your soul, is all, I swear, Dean, that's all it is, just... proximity, but it works best with contact... because... the aura of your soul permeates your vessel all the way out to your skin, and there's just this... automatic way in which the proximity of your soul would feel... calming, comforting... it's just... it's just this instinctive sort of..." ( _Have I ever seen him look this miserable?_ thought Dean.) "I _never_ wanted to pressure you. I never even wanted you to know about this—"

"That's pretty clear, actually," said Dean. "So, for how long?"

Cas blinked at him. "What?"

"Say you put your wings on me, or your tershy-whatevers—"

"Tertial-feathers," said Cas numbly.

"— your tertial-feathers near my soul or on my skin or whatever. Say you did that. How long would it take? For you to heal? To bask and warm up, or whatever it is you do?"

"I, uh..." It seemed the question had caught Cas by surprise. "I don't know," he said at last, sounding a little desperate. "Hours? A few nights? I don't know. Um...I've never actually done it. Obviously."

"You've... wait, you've _never_ done it?" Dean frowned at him. "Not with anybody else?"

For a long moment Castiel just looked at him.

"Angels bond for life, Dean," he said at last. "Bonding for life isn't just a saying. It only happens once. If it happens at all."

Dean could only look back at him.

_Ten years...._

_Ten years walking in the cold._

At night. Through the snow. With frickin' wolves, apparently.

"See," said Cas quietly. "I knew you wouldn't —"

"Hold on a minute, would you?" said Dean, rising to his feet. "Be right back." The baffled look on Cas's face would almost have made Dean laugh, if not for the woeful expression in Cas’s eyes, and the way he was once again gripping the edge of his blanket. "Gimme ten minutes," said Dean. "Swear I'll be back. Hold on."

As Dean hurried down the hall to his own room, and then to Sam's, once again the awful memory came to mind. The memory that had haunted his nightmares for so many nights: Cas pinned by the blade, on that terrible night.

Skewered, helpless as a butterfly. That blade had gone entirely through him, straight through his core, straight through the heart. Dean had known instantly that it was no "slight grazing," not a "glancing blow;" this was no "recoverable wound." This was the end.

And then, sure enough, the burning light; that blinding, shattering blaze. It was indeed the end. Castiel had fallen limp to the ground, and that had been that.

It had been so unbelievably fast.

Dean could still see the ashmarks of the wings. They'd been so huge....

He could still feel the weight of the body.

The feel of that sheet.

The firewood. The pyre. The lighter fluid.

The flames. The terrible, terrible smell.

The day after.

The day after that.

And the day after that.

And the day after that....

 _Cas, you have no frickin' idea how much I would do_ , Dean thought, several minutes later, as he wheeled a squeaky-wheeled cart back down the hallway toward Cas's room. _How far I would go. You have no idea. You just want your wings on me?_ It almost made him laugh. _You could've asked for the moon._

He barely paused at Cas's door this time, just knocking briefly before he swung the door open and wheeled the cart in. Cas was still sitting at the head of his bed. Though now he'd slumped down a little on the pillow, curled up even more, with both hands wrapped tight around his midsection. Exhaustion was clear on his face, and confusion, and worry... and a dawning puzzlement, as he saw what Dean had just wheeled into the room: the big flatscreen TV that usually lived in Sam's room. Along with a big extension cord. And, on the lower shelf of the squeaky cart, a huge bowl of popcorn and a couple of cold beers.

"What..." said Cas slowly. He craned his head up a little to peer at the contents of the cart. "What are you doing? What is all that?"

"Thought we could watch some movies," announced Dean. He handed Cas one of the beers; Cas took it numbly, watching as Dean set up the extension cord, fired up the TV and checked out its wi-fi connection. Dean asked offhandedly, "You ever seen the recent Marvel movies? Whole new thing. Worth checking out."

Cas gave a confused, uncertain shrug. "I... I guess I... " It seemed to take him an effort to refocus on the sudden change of topic. He actually took a swig of beer, and Dean could almost see him thinking, _Is Dean just completely changing the topic? Maybe he's never going to mention my wings again?... Well, I'll go with it._

Finally Cas said, "I know the plots of the first few, I think? But if they're from the last few years, probably not."

"You seen the last Thor movie? The Ragnarok one?"

Cas shook his head.

"How about Captain America: Winter Soldier?"

Another head-shake. "I won't be familiar with anything from the last few years—"

"Doctor Strange? The last Spiderman?"

More head-shakes. "Dean, listen to me, this thing with my wings, you really don't have to—"

"Okay then," said Dean, jabbing a few buttons on the remote. The TV sprang to life. A few button-presses later and Dean had waded deep into the TV's Netflix menu. He picked up the popcorn bowl and walked up to the head of Cas's bed. "Move over," Dean said, waving his beer bottle at Castiel. Cas just gazed up at him, both hands wrapped tightly around his own bottle of beer.

"Oh, should I take my shirt off or something?" Dean asked. "Do you need, like, skin-to-skin contact? Or skin-to-feather? Oh and, where _are_ your wings, anyway? Do you need a minute to like... get them out or something? Arrange them?"

Cas stared up at him, without moving, for a long moment.

"I _would_ heal without this," Cas said slowly. "You need to understand that. It'll take a bit more time, but I _would_ heal—"

"I said, should I take my shirt off?" repeated Dean, plucking at the edge of his flannel shirt with one hand. "Shirt on? Shirt off? Cause I am sitting down next to you on this bed and we are gonna watch a bunch of superhero movies, while you put your feathers on my soul-aura or whatever it is you do. That is what is happening. So you might as well tell me whether the shirt stays on or comes off."

Cas actually opened and closed his mouth twice, wordlessly, before he managed to speak. Finally he said, hoarsely, "I guess... it would probably be... a little more effective with the shirt off? Though, I feel I need to repeat that—"

"Shirt off, then," said Dean. Ignoring the rest of Cas's objections (which were sounding increasingly half-hearted), Dean set down his beer, the popcorn and the remote control, putting them all on the bedside table. He shucked his flannel shirt off, pulled his undershirt over his head, and he kicked off his shoes. He'd already changed into loose-fitting sweatpants back in his own bedroom. (Truth be told, he'd probably have been willing to shed the pants too. But that could come later, if it needed to; for now it seemed it might be a little calming to have one familiar boundary still in place, one line of clarity, if just to remind him what the hell they were actually trying to accomplish. Pants on, then.)

Shirtless, Dean hesitated a moment. He said with a laugh, looking down at Cas, "This is where you totally humiliate me by saying something like, oh actually it's Sam, not you. Cause, you know, I just realized, you never actually said—"

"It's you," said Castiel.

And for a moment it was oddly hard for Dean to draw in a normal breath of air.

"Okay then," said Dean, forcing a casualness into his voice, "Snuggle time! With Marvel movies, beer and popcorn. Netflix and chill... but G-rated." He laughed a little self-consciously at his own joke, picked up the remote again and waved it at Cas, a little impatiently. "Move, move. You still gotta move over."

Cas slowly shifted over, and Dean got into the bed.

Right under the covers. Right next to Cas.

Dean still had the remote in one hand. Cas was clutching his beer bottle tight with both of his. Slowly, Dean settled into place, feeling somewhat as if he were strategizing the first battle of a very critical war.

"Is this seriously all I gotta do?" Dean said. "Cause, I was prepared for a hell of a lot more. I was ready to, like, rethink my sexuality and all that. Had an existential crisis all primed and ready to go. Was all set to pimp myself out. We really just gotta lie here and watch movies?"

"Just... wing contact," Cas said, almost whispering. They were, in fact, slightly in contact already, the side of Dean's arm brushing Cas's. It was a very minor sort of touch, barely a square inch of shoulder touching. It should have felt entirely trivial.

Yet it didn't.

Despite all of Cas's careful explanation, despite his "fairly good analogy" about the cold and the sunshine, despite all of Dean's attempts to wrap his head around it... despite the years and years of deep familiarity, of comradeship, of friendship....

Despite all the times they'd bled on each other, leaned on each other, punched and fought each other, argued with each other....

Helped each other.

Carried each other.

Trusted each other.

Despite all of the history across all of the years (or rather, of course, because of it), this tiny bit of contact, shoulder to shoulder, seemed momentously significant. As if nothing in the world would ever be the same.

 _I was so determined to make this not a big deal_ , Dean thought, a little ruefully. _But... truth is... it's a big deal._

Which was okay, really.

The movie started. Dean had decided to start off with the two Captain America movies, which were among his favorites. But he soon found he couldn't concentrate on the screen at all. Cas, for his part, was lying rigid, hands wrapped tensely around his beer bottle, staring at the ceiling. In fact Cas seemed to be barely breathing.

"What about the wings?" Dean had to ask. "What do you gotta do? Do you gotta, turn toward me or something?

There was a pause. Cas fidgeted slightly, turning his beer bottle around in both hands.

"I thought this was supposed to relax you," Dean commented.

Cas actually gave a tiny laugh at that. "I'm worried," he said at last.

"You really don't have to be," said Dean quietly.

Cas nodded. But he still did not turn toward Dean, and it seemed he'd still totally forgotten to even make a pretense of watching the opening scenes of Captain America. And then there was the faintest sound of a catch in Cas's throat, an unevenness in his breathing.

He still did not move, not even when Dean reached over, took Cas's beer out of his hands, and put both their beers down on the bedside table. Dean turned back toward him and said, so close he was speaking practically into Cas's ear:

"Cas. It's okay. It's _really_ okay."

Cas let out a long, ragged breath, and said, "I have been so.... _certain_... for so long, that this would drive you away. And I..." His voice had fallen into a whisper. "I cannot lose you, Dean. I can't. I just can't."

"That's not gonna happen," said Dean, whispering back just as intensely. Neither of them was watching the TV at all by now. Dean said, "C'mon. Do your wing thing." He even reached clear across Cas with one hand, in order to tug at Cas's far shoulder. "Lean on me. Put your head on my shoulder or whatever; whatever you gotta do. It's really okay, I swear it, Cas, I swear to you: _It's okay._ "

An uncertain nod, and finally Cas rolled toward him, a little stiffly; a little awkwardly. Uncertain, hesitant, he slowly let his head settle a little against Dean's shoulder.

Dean let him adjust there. Slow minutes passed; they both eventually remembered to pretend to watch the movie. And, gradually, it began to seem comfortable. Dean managed to drag the popcorn bowl a little closer, and ate a little popcorn, and took a few swigs of beer, and even started to enjoy the movie. And he didn't comment when slowly, softly, something extended across him. A faint blurring in the air, barely detectable, a warping that was slightly blurring the very bottom of the TV screen; a hint of a shadow, maybe; a hint of warmth across Dean's chest. He felt, rather than heard, Castiel letting out a quiet, long sigh, and then another, and by degrees Castiel finally began to relax.

And relax more.

And more. The pace of Cas's breathing changed. Every now and then another slow, long sigh, would escape his lips, and with each sigh it seemed he relaxed farther, his head sinking a little more heavily against Dean's shoulder.

_Ten years...._

With another long sigh, Cas shifted one hand, stretching it across Dean's waist and spreading his fingers against Dean's skin. A split second later Cas went rigidly tense and stopped breathing entirely, apparently realizing what he'd just done. He began to withdraw his hand, but so slowly and stealthily that Dean had to laugh.

"Sorry," Cas muttered. "I forgot myself—"

"Leave it," Dean said. "Leave it." Dean set his own hand over Cas's. "I told you, it's okay."

By degrees Cas relaxed again.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Dean realized Cas had fallen asleep.

This was actually a little confusing, or worrying even, since normally Cas didn't sleep at all. Now he seemed more deeply asleep than Dean had ever known him to sleep before, even back when he was fully human. His breathing became so slow and deep that at one point Dean even got a little concerned about whether Cas was even still breathing. But it seemed to be just sleep, for Cas's breath was still puffing periodically against Dean's shoulder, his arm limp across Dean's waist, his head heavy against Dean's shoulder. And that barely visible shadow in the air, that hint of some other sort of feathery presence, was now splayed all across Dean's body, right over his chest, and folded all down Dean's side. There was even now a velvety softness underneath Dean as well, almost as if the lower bedsheet had somehow changed to flannel; Dean was fairly sure there was another wing wrapped around him from below.

It had all become very comfortable.

Relaxing, even.

"I would've done so much more," Dean whispered to him, though Cas was fast asleep. "You have no idea...."

The second movie was half over, and Dean had long since become resigned to the fact that he was going to have make Castiel re-watch both movies all the way from the beginning, when there came a gentle knock on the door.

"Sam?" Dean called out quietly. (Cas didn't wake.) The door swung slowly open. Dean had already been trying to figure out how to explain all this to Sam.

But, much worse, it wasn't Sam but Gabriel.

Dean met Gabriel's mocking gaze with a hard stare. If Gabriel woke Cas, and if he started laughing, and teasing, after all this time trying to get Cas to relax—

That sardonic look was on Gabriel's face already, the inevitable sarcastic smirk already quirking up a corner of his mouth as he took in the way Cas's head was slumped on Dean's shoulder, the way Cas's hand was so loosely splayed over Dean's waist. Gabriel's eyes even traced up and down the path of that long sheet of velvety warmth that seemed to be lying all across Dean's body by now — could Gabriel see the wings?

But when Gabriel's gaze at last returned to Dean's face, the mocking look had faded, leaving in its place a rather odd expression that was actually a little difficult to identify. Something Dean had not seen in his expression before... Sympathy? Regret?

Something else?

Gabriel tilted his head to one side and at last took in a breath to speak. Mentally, Dean braced himself again, but Gabriel spoke very quietly, and all he said was, "His wings might be able to heal."

Dean frowned and murmured back, "He says not."

Gabriel shrugged. "He's probably basing that off what's happened to the other angels," he said, now actually whispering. "I've seen more types of wing-damage than he has. His feather-roots aren't actually too badly burned. He didn't fall in the same way that the others did, you know. If you keep at it, he's got a shot."

Again Gabriel's eyes flicked over the space where the shadowy warmth was, the space that must be occupied by Cas's wings.

Dean finally said, "Don't you have some snarky comment or something?"

Gabriel nodded. "Got dozens, actually. All lined up ready to go." A rueful smile crooked up one corner of his mouth as he added, "Good ones, too. Top-quality snark! Been planning all day. Lot of gay jokes, of course. Top-shelf innuendo. Quality double-entendres, even some triples... Kinda proud of some of them. Bit of a waste not to use them, but..." He shrugged, with another long glance at Castiel. "Some other time, maybe."

Gabriel closed the door, very softly, and he left.

 

* * *

 

Sam checked in a little later; or so he said the next morning. Dean only realized Sam had been in the room at all when he woke the next day to find the beer bottles and the popcorn neatly set aside, and the TV turned off as well. Apparently Dean had ended up drifting off himself, and had spent the whole night there, in the bed by Cas's side.

As he spent the next night, too.

And the night after that.

And the night after that.  

 


End file.
